


Submerge

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Angst and Porn, Biting, Bruises, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Kissing, Semi-Public Sex, Sloppy Makeouts, Spit As Lube, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-08 14:23:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15932264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Hiyori can’t follow Ikuya across the sand, can’t keep pace with the spark and flare of the other’s dreams; and if all that is left for him is the endless dark of the water, he’ll drag Ikuya down into it with him rather than watching him go again." Ikuya loses his temper, and Hiyori runs out of patience with waiting and chooses doing instead.





	Submerge

At first Hiyori thinks that Ikuya is talking about him.

It’s an absurd mistake. After all the years of waiting, all the years of silence as much enforced as chosen, there’s no reason to think that Hiyori’s fraying temper would find an audience now when there has never been one before. But as Hiyori stands at the edge of the slide and stares up at Ikuya gazing at his knees instead of at him, sunk under his own misery instead of listening to Hiyori, for a brief moment of irrational hope he believes that Ikuya is answering him.

“In exchange for her voice, the little mermaid gained human legs and excruciating pain.” There’s no change in Ikuya’s tone, no indication that his topic has shifted by so much as a breath from that fixed point he has been orbiting for so long; but Hiyori’s heart is aching, his eyes are burning with unshed tears as his throat closes around unvoiced words, and for a moment of absolute madness he thinks Ikuya is acknowledging him, is apologizing, even, for the hurt he has caused Hiyori, for the long years of cold isolation that Hiyori chose to settle for in exchange for being at Ikuya’s side, close enough to see if not to touch, close enough to listen if not to be heard. Hiyori’s heart stammers, stumbling over its rhythm as his eyes go wide on the shock of possibility; and then Ikuya goes on, and Hiyori’s hope melts away like a punctured bubble.

“I gave up my heart in order to get stronger.” Ikuya is still talking about himself, head turned up towards the sky, gaze fixed on anything but Hiyori. Hiyori wonders if Ikuya has even heard a word he says, if he even knows Hiyori is standing there at all. “Or I thought I did. But…” Ikuya’s arms flex around his knees, tightening for a moment before they fall slack. “I couldn’t become human.”

“You’re wrong,” Hiyori says; but it’s a sob, it’s almost a wail, his emotion is breaking free of his hold and flinging itself against the broken edges of his shattered heart, as if emotion will carry his words to Ikuya’s ears, as if he still has a voice to speak with at all anymore. His words are strained, as much to himself as to Ikuya. “You’re not the little mermaid.”

Ikuya shudders over a breath. When he speaks again his voice is cracking onto the start of emotion, giving way to pain as if he’s talking to himself, as if he hasn’t heard a single one of the words Hiyori is scattering at his feet to smooth the path before him. “I can’t be strong like Haru.”

It’s the name that does it. Hiyori’s heart is aching already, shattering past all mending by the careless inward turn of Ikuya’s words reaching to take even this one point of comfort from him, to demand even this last thing he has left to himself; and then, to add insult to injury, there’s the thought of that person Ikuya keeps turning towards, keeps reaching out for as better even in the pain of hopelessness than Hiyori himself here and real and _present_. Hiyori can feel his temper give way, can feel it snap cleanly in two; and he’s propelled forward, moving to step in close, to reach up and seize at Ikuya at last. His hand catches the slack weight of the other’s wrist, his whole arm flexes with frustrated force, and Ikuya’s balance goes as Hiyori pulls him off the top of the slide and down the smooth slope of it. Ikuya slips to the bottom of the slide, carried forward by his own weight until he draws to a halt at the end of it; and Hiyori leans in over him, bracketing Ikuya’s legs with his own as he clutches at the edges of the slide on either side of Ikuya’s head, as he squeezes against the metal until he half-expects it to give way beneath the tension of his grip.

“Can’t you just forget about Nanase already?” His voice is raw, emotion bleeding through every word; his facade is shattered, his veneer of humanity stripped away to show him for what he really is, to lay bare all his sacrifices as the selfish want they have been all this time. “I can’t stand to see you suffering because of him any longer.”

Ikuya’s brows tighten and draw together to crease hard against the line of his forehead; but Hiyori doesn’t care, doesn’t care that Ikuya’s mouth is tightening onto irritation and that his eyes are darkening to anger, because Ikuya is _looking_ at him, trapped between Hiyori’s arms and with the other between him and his too-loved sky, left with no choice but to see him as he is, _where_ he is, where he has been all this time. Ikuya’s lashes dip, his mouth pulls down onto the beginning of a frown. It’s still better than the miserable passivity that was in his face before. “I’ll think about myself, for myself.”

“You could aim for the global level.” Hiyori’s staring into Ikuya’s eyes, laying claim to the full force of the other’s attention. His heart is pounding frantic in his chest, as if he’s been caught in the midst of a transformation and has forgotten how to breathe, has forgotten how to make use of lungs in place of gills. “I know you can do it.” Hiyori’s heart is racing, his blood is burning, his skin is flushing. He would be shaking, he thinks, if he weren’t holding to the edges of the slide underneath him, if he weren’t braced on such tension over Ikuya that he thinks it’s the only thing holding him upright on legs that have gone weak with adrenaline. He clutches at the edges of the slide and drags a rasping breath into his lungs.

“You can become a new you,” Hiyori says. “If that’ll bring you happiness--”

“You don’t,” Ikuya grates out, and Hiyori has never heard that tone from him before, has never heard such tension in the voice of the boy who has been his best friend for years, for a childhood spanning back even to a time when Ikuya had forgotten the name of the lonely child whose heart he claimed with the ease of a friendly smile. Hiyori pauses, caught off-guard by this tone so vicious it’s like a blow, and in the gap of shock in his thoughts the impact of Ikuya’s arm shoving against his chest hits with twice its natural force. Hiyori’s grip on the slide comes loose, his balance wavering as if he’s on newmade legs, as if the familiarity of standing has been made something impossibly strange, and Ikuya is lunging into his uncertainty, pushing up from the support of the metal under him at the same time he urges Hiyori back. “You don’t understand anything!” He surges forward, rising to his full height in the span of a breath, inverting Hiyori’s position over him to claim his own height advantage as he leans in, as his startling volume breaks into a full-throated shout in his throat. “Don’t talk like you do!”

Hiyori stumbles backwards, forced to distance by Ikuya’s ungentle shove against his chest as much as by the instinct that tells him to retreat from such force, from the threat of violence in Ikuya’s voice if not yet in his actions. His heel catches, sand skids under his shoe; for a moment he thinks he’s going to fall, that he will be knocked flat to the ground before the looming force of Ikuya’s anger. He doesn’t -- instinct catches him, reflex forces his feet under the balance of his body without the need for any thought -- but even when he looks back up Ikuya’s not moving to help him, not even extending a hand into the instinct for support he would give a stranger. There’s no sympathy in the fever-bright of his eyes, no apology in the hard set of his mouth; he’s glaring at Hiyori like he doesn’t know him, as if all the years of silent support Hiyori has offered are so easily cast aside for the first words of honesty the other has ever truly given him. Hiyori ducks his head down, fixing his eyes on the sand underfoot as he wills himself not to cry, as he fights back the burn of anger and misery and hurt all together that are rising in his throat to choke him on all the years of his unspoken and unanswered desires.

“You’re not the normal Ikuya right now,” he says, softly, more to himself than to Ikuya, as if by putting words to the hope he can make himself believe the fact of it. “Ever since you saw Nanase…” He pauses, expecting Ikuya to protest, to push back against the attribution; but there’s just silence, ringing with the echo of Hiyori’s own words coming back to tear him to pieces by the razor of their edge. Hiyori’s throat closes up on itself, pressing hard against the weight of too many feelings at once, and under the compression in his chest it’s the bitterness that comes first, granted ease by long years of familiarity nursing it in the back of his mind.

“Just forget about him,” Hiyori says. The words are soft but they fall clear into that quiet, stones dropped into the pool of expectation between them. “Ikuya…” Hiyori’s fingers curl, his arms flex; when he lifts his head he can feel tension in his shoulders, at his arms, climbing the whole structure of his body to dig in against his spine and flash desperation behind his eyes. “Why don’t you get it?!” and he doesn’t know what he’s speaking about, now, if it’s the specter of Nanase Haruka that he has hated all these years it has been hanging over Ikuya or Ikuya’s turned back itself, that gaze cast away towards a past he doesn’t even see clearly, towards a savior he invented for himself as a better option than the one right in front of him. “That would be the best thing for you right now!”

Ikuya steps closer. There’s no distance between them to begin with, Hiyori could reach out and touch his fingers to Ikuya’s sleeve if he could make himself move; but it’s Ikuya who’s moving, taking a long stride forward to stage an invasion on Hiyori’s personal space, to set his foot hard between Hiyori’s and bring them close enough their chests are nearly touching. Hiyori’s breath stalls, clinging to his tongue and tightening in his throat, but before he can lean in, before he can reach out Ikuya is raising his arm, flattening his forearm hard against Hiyori’s chest and shoving him back into another forced, skidding retreat. Hiyori stumbles into surrender, retreating by Ikuya’s demand even as everything in himself aches to lean forward, and in front of him, right into his face, Ikuya is leaning in, shouting with the full volume of his lungs. “It’s not your concern, Hiyori!”

Hiyori feels the words like ice, as if the blunt pressure of Ikuya’s arm against him carried the edge of a blade to slice through skin and bone and muscle and pierce the frantic pounding of his heart in his chest. Ikuya’s words shove him back as thoroughly as his touch, force him over the other side of the line Hiyori has spent what feels like the whole of his life trying to creep across; they disavow everything that Hiyori has wanted, everything Hiyori has believed, everything Hiyori has sacrificed for all these years he has trailed in Ikuya’s wake waiting for those eyes to look back and see him. And even now, even here: with Ikuya’s arm against him, with Ikuya’s voice on his name, with nothing around them but the silence of an empty park, Ikuya is looking through him, is choosing absence over Hiyori, is choosing isolation as a better alternative to everything Hiyori could offer, is offering, has offered. Hiyori stares at Ikuya, his heart thudding dull agony against the force of Ikuya’s arm; and Ikuya blinks, and retreats, his gaze falling along with his hand.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice soft on his own hurt, on that pain he refuses to share, the burden he won’t hand over; and he turns, giving Hiyori the same thing he’s always given him, the line of his shoulders moving away as his gaze turns down towards the pull of the earth beneath his feet. Hiyori’s chest tightens, as if he’s feeling the impact of Ikuya’s shove against him only now, as if he’s had the air stripped from his lungs and is being left to drown in the open air of the park around them as Ikuya turns to walk away from him and leave him alone. He can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t stop Ikuya; and his arm lifts, his fingers reach, and Hiyori’s hand is closing hard around Ikuya’s wrist before he even realizes he’s moving. Ikuya is still pulling away, dragging against the contact as quickly as Hiyori lays claim to it; but Hiyori’s heels are dug in against the sand under him, and Ikuya’s not expecting the force, and this time it’s Ikuya who stumbles and stops at the contact.

“What…?” he starts, looking down at Hiyori’s hold on his sleeve before he brings his gaze up to meet the other’s, as if he can’t make sense of what he’s feeling, as if he had forgotten Hiyori was there so soon, or at least had dismissed him so entirely from his mind as to disregard even the possibility of the other taking action. When his eyes come up to meet Hiyori’s the flare of anger that was so briefly present is gone, stripped away along with the moment of guilt in that last breath to leave just confusion. “Hiyori…?”

“It is,” Hiyori says. His voice feels like it’s tearing out of him, like it’s clawing its way up his throat against the habit of years, against an endless silence to finally force itself free onto the world. “It _is_ my concern.” And he jerks at Ikuya’s arm hard enough to drag the other off his feet, and when Ikuya stumbles sideways Hiyori reaches up to grab at a handful of the other’s shirt and yank him in so he can step forward and crush his mouth hard against Ikuya’s lips.

The impact is bruising. Ikuya is in the middle of falling -- Hiyori thinks he might have collapsed entirely were it not for Hiyori’s presence in front of him -- and Hiyori’s approach is hardly calculated for care. It’s not calculated at all, in truth; his body is carried forward on impulse, on the urging of some desire so long restrained that he had almost forgotten what it was like to be free of it. But now it’s in the press of his fingers, in the strength of his legs, in the angle of his shoulders: in the fit of his mouth against Ikuya’s, in the force of his lips pressing flush against the other’s. Ikuya’s mouth is still parted on shock, on whatever words he might have intended to say that have fallen silent in the force of Hiyori’s approach, and Hiyori is kissing him, Ikuya’s mouth is pressing against his and finally, _finally_ he has the friction he has been craving with the same ache starving lungs feel for air. He stays where he is, his lips pinning hard against Ikuya’s own and his heart hammering on adrenaline in his chest, until Ikuya’s hand catches at his shoulder, and Ikuya reclaims some part of his balance and pulls himself back by a handful of breathless inches.

“Hiyori,” he says again; but his voice is different, now, darker and reeling with confusion. “You--what--”

“No,” Hiyori says, and he doesn’t know what he’s refusing, the question or the answer or the retreat, but there’s heat running through him like electricity sparking through ocean water and he’s glowing hot, now, all the ice Ikuya jolted through him is twisting to a knot of fire instead. He lets go of Ikuya’s arm to release the other from his grip but he’s reaching up, too, lifting both hands to grab Ikuya’s head between his palms, and when Ikuya stumbles forward and in in surrender to Hiyori’s pull Hiyori is stepping in to meet him, tipping his head and bracing Ikuya still against the force of his mouth. Ikuya makes a noise in the back of his throat, something soft and shocked like it’s been startled out of him by the contact, but his lips part with the give of it and Hiyori takes that too, pressing in to take and claim the heat of Ikuya’s mouth with his own as quickly as the other’s defenses give way.

Ikuya’s hand clutches at Hiyori’s shoulder, his fingers tighten to fist against the line of the other’s shirt as his palm comes down to brace at Hiyori’s chest; but there’s no force to the motion, no strength to his action, and Hiyori has the taste of Ikuya’s lips on his tongue and the shape of Ikuya’s mouth against his own and he’s coming alive as if he’s been granted the gift of humanity stolen from the heat of Ikuya’s body against him. He steps forward, once, twice, a span of strides taken as quickly as Ikuya falls back, and then they’re toppling backwards as the speed of Hiyori’s steps outstrips the grace of Ikuya’s retreat. Hiyori clutches at Ikuya’s hair, clinging to closeness instead of saving his own balance, and when they go down it’s to land hard enough at the slide that Hiyori can hear the whole structure creak protest under them. Ikuya’s breath is knocked out of him, gusting in a rush over Hiyori’s parted lips, and Hiyori slams his knee so hard against the edge of the slide that he can feel the ache of the impact spike all the way up to his hip, but he doesn’t pause to so much as hiss protest to the hurt. His toe scuffs through the sand under them, seeking and claiming traction, his knee comes down hard against Ikuya’s thigh, and then Hiyori is leaning in again, pushing down to pin Ikuya beneath the whole weight of his body while he reaches for Ikuya’s lips, cheek, jaw, whatever he can claim with the force of lips and teeth and tongue and years of desperate, unrequited desire.

“Hiyori,” Ikuya manages, struggling over the other’s name; Hiyori doesn’t know if it’s the effect of his mouth or the weight of his body over the other that is stripping the coherency from Ikuya’s lips, and if he’s honest he doesn’t much care. He presses his mouth hard to Ikuya’s lips and licks far in against the heat of the other’s tongue; Ikuya whimpers something that tastes like sugar against Hiyori’s tongue before he manages to slide his hand up from Hiyori’s chest to brace between his collarbones instead and push with force enough to break them apart for a gasping moment. “What are you _doing_?”

“You never see me,” Hiyori grates. “You’re always looking away. Always looking at _Nanase_.” The name chokes him, it twists into a curse on his tongue, and for a moment he can’t breathe again, can’t find the words for what he needs, what he feels with such desperation that the whole of his body against Ikuya’s is shaking with it. “ _Look_ at me.” And he’s pressing in again, holding Ikuya’s head still between his palms while he ducks in to bruise the force of another kiss against the other’s mouth. Ikuya hisses an inhale, Hiyori can feel the rush of it against his skin, and for a moment he’s sure Ikuya will shove him off, will flex that arm against Hiyori’s chest and push him over to fall to the cold sand around them. Ikuya’s going to urge him away, is going to reject him, is going to _leave_ him; and Hiyori moans with helpless misery against Ikuya’s mouth, and catches his teeth against the give of Ikuya’s lip to bite a bruise that will linger there even if he can’t. His motion is desperate, frantic with need and pain and too much suffering to be held back by his own frayed patience, and as his teeth catch and press Ikuya shudders under him, his whole body tensing for a moment underneath the weight of Hiyori’s. A sound spills from his throat, something hot and startled that Hiyori can feel thrum against his mouth, and the pressure at his chest gives way, easing back to surrender Hiyori hadn’t expected to feel.

It’s startling enough that Hiyori lets his hold go and pulls back for a breath, heart racing on hope and misery and desire bleeding one into the other until he can’t tell them apart. They stay there for a moment, Hiyori breathless and Ikuya panting; then Ikuya’s fingers shift, his hold at Hiyori’s chest curls down to fist at the neckline of the other’s shirt, and he shoves up from the slide in an echo of his earlier motion. But he’s pulling instead of pushing, now, dragging at Hiyori with all the strength of his arm, and when Hiyori comes down Ikuya is the one to meet him this time to pin their mouths hard together. His teeth catch Hiyori’s lip and come together hard enough that Hiyori can taste blood against the inside of his mouth, but it’s not pain that surges through Hiyori’s body, and it’s not rejection flexing at Ikuya’s arm. Hiyori moans in spite of himself, the sound pouring like a tribute against Ikuya’s mouth, and when Ikuya lets his teeth go Hiyori presses in to lay claim to his lips again.

It’s not really kissing. Their mouths are together, to be sure, lips urging such pressure against each other that Hiyori can feel the ache even without the fast-rising bruise from the print of Ikuya’s teeth at his skin; but it feels more like a fight than affection, more like a battle than intimacy. Ikuya is grabbing at Hiyori’s shirt, dragging the neckline out of shape and scratching against the curve of his back and pushing against his hip until Hiyori can’t tell what he wants, isn’t sure Ikuya himself knows what he’s reaching for; but Hiyori is meeting him, holding him, bracing Ikuya down against the slick metal of the slide supporting them together. It reminds him of the cold of that pool all those years ago, when Ikuya’s drowning struggles for the surface were as much a detriment as an aid to Hiyori’s efforts to save his life; the memory comes alive like fire in his thoughts, burning down the whole of his spine to grant the adrenaline-fueled strength of true desperation to his movements.

“You never see me,” Hiyori says against Ikuya’s mouth, the words tearing almost to a sob against the other’s lips. Ikuya hisses wordlessly, anger or rejection Hiyori doesn’t know which, and rocks up to crush another kiss against Hiyori’s lips while his fingers fist at the waistband of Hiyori’s jeans. Hiyori doesn’t make any effort to resist; all his interest is in pressing closer anyway, curling his grip in against Ikuya’s arm and digging his knee to bruising weight at Ikuya’s thigh. There’s a thought of bruises in the back of his head, a consideration of purples and blues rising on Ikuya’s skin in the pattern of his fingertips, under the drive of his knee; the idea tenses heat all across his shoulders and knots to a weight in the depth of his stomach until it’s hard to find his breath as anything except a gasping whine of need. “I just want you to _see_ me, Ikuya.”

Ikuya huffs a breath. Hiyori doesn’t even know if he’s listening at all. He pulls at the waistband of Hiyori’s pants, dragging hard to offset the balance of the other’s weight. “You’re hurting me.”

“Good,” Hiyori says, with more honesty than he meant to give. “Better than nothing.” Ikuya hisses in the back of his throat, the sound raw with anger and frustration and undeniable heat, and when he grabs for Hiyori’s neck it’s to dig his fingernails in hard at the top of the other’s spine, driving the edges in like he’s trying to draw blood as he forces Hiyori back down against his mouth. Hiyori’s lashes flutter, his vision giving way in spite of himself with the heat of Ikuya’s mouth against his, and when Ikuya shoves at his hip his balance veers to the side to throw him up against the edge of the slide around them. His grip on the dark of Ikuya’s hair is too tight for him to be dislodged from the kiss, and Ikuya is clinging to him too, but Hiyori’s knee does slide down from the other’s thigh to slot into the space between Ikuya’s legs instead. For a moment Hiyori is lying atop Ikuya outright, the support of the other’s chest under him the only thing keeping him from slipping off to fall to the sand; then he gets his foot braced against the ground, and gets his bruised knee up and against the metal end of the slide to hold them still. His weight urges him forward to lie close against Ikuya under him, and it’s as his thigh shifts to pin Ikuya’s hips down where they lie that Ikuya’s mouth comes open and his throat works over a sharp, startled groan of heat against Hiyori’s lips. Hiyori’s skin flushes with heat, his chest tightens as if in a fist, and he’s reacting before he has even made sense of the resistance digging in against his thigh atop Ikuya. His body flexes, every part of him rocking forward in pursuit of more of that sound, more of that heat from Ikuya’s body, and Ikuya arches up beneath him, his spine curving to press up against Hiyori atop him as his voice breaks onto a hiss nearly as pained as it is desperate.

“ _Oh_ ,” Hiyori gasps, his voice nearly as shattered-open as Ikuya’s own. “ _Ikuya_.”

“Fuck,” Ikuya spits, blurting the sound over his tongue as his forehead creases and his jaw tightens. “Hiyori” and Hiyori’s chest empties itself, spilling every ounce of air in him into a voiceless gasp at the sound of Ikuya’s voice straining so taut over his name.

“Yes,” he says, his voice gaining traction on the leading edge of satisfaction; and he pushes his hands back into Ikuya’s hair, pinning the dark back from the other’s face as he ducks in to weight his mouth against Ikuya’s jawline, his cheekbone, the crease of tension at the corner of his eye. Hiyori can’t get a good angle as they are, with both hands occupied and only the pressure of one foot against the sand beneath him to urge him forward, but with his whole body straining he manages enough. His thigh presses forward, his hips slide up, and when he shifts he grinds his body in against Ikuya’s, struggling through a motion as much desperate as effective. It’s as clumsy as his motion, as awkward as their position, but he can feel the way Ikuya tenses under him, and the front of his pants are dragging in against the ache of his own arousal, and the heady impossibility of that is too much for him to pull away from.

“Ikuya,” Hiyori says, meaning to put some kind of meaning to the word, to follow that one sound of familiar ache with more: a confession, a demand, coherency enough to encompass those years of silence, half his lifetime of waiting that has finally brought him to this moment, when all his patience runs dry at once. But the same heat that is aching in his cock and cramping at his thighs has stolen voice from his kiss-bruised lips and stripped the clarity from his thoughts, and in the end all Hiyori can manage to do is duck his head in over Ikuya’s shoulder, giving up even his hold on the other’s hair so he can hide his face in against Ikuya’s shirt and press so close that his glasses fog with the heat of his breathing and the frames dig in sharply at the side of his head. His inhales break in his throat, cracking into the beginning of a moan and catching over the give of a sob, until Hiyori has to press his lips together and breathe straining through his nose just to hold back the wail of Ikuya’s name that wants to pull itself from him.

It’s all too much to hold onto. They’re already well beyond the scope of what Hiyori has ever had any real hope of attaining; it’s the awareness of that that has kept his fingers fisted with such strength in Ikuya’s hair, that has kept him moving with more desperation than thought, as if he can chase away Ikuya’s inevitable protest if he doesn’t give either of them time to think through the moment. But Ikuya doesn’t protest, doesn’t hiss rejection or shove at Hiyori’s shoulder; he just stays where he is, pinned to the metal of the slide beneath them by Hiyori’s weight and panting against the other’s shoulder like he can’t find air for his lungs. Hiyori feels like he’s burning, fueled by something fierce and aching that only claws the harder against the inside of his chest with every breath he manages, with every moment he steals from Ikuya beneath him. He’s as close as his body can bring him, pressing flush against Ikuya from their knees to their shoulders; but it’s not close enough, even like this, not enough to ease the strain in him.

Hiyori hisses over a breath, feels the edge of it scrape the back of his throat to tear his breathing as ragged as Ikuya’s teeth dragged at his lip, and when he lifts his hand from Ikuya’s hair it’s to shove down instead, to struggle for traction like a drowning man struggling for land. His hand presses to Ikuya’s shirt, the fabric slipping slick through his grip as quickly as he reaches for it; but Ikuya’s hip is still pinned beneath his thigh, the proof of Ikuya’s arousal is digging in against his leg, and that’s enough, if Hiyori can just lay hand to it. He pushes his hand down, pinning his wrist back to a sharp angle between the weight of his body and the resistance of Ikuya’s under him; and then his fingers find the waistband of Ikuya’s jeans, and Hiyori hisses a breath that sounds like a sob and pushes down hard to force his fingers into the space between Ikuya’s stomach and the strain of his pants. His touch slides, the waistband drags raw over his knuckles and the edge of his wrist, but Hiyori’s hand is inside Ikuya’s pants, his fingers are reaching for heat, and then his touch brushes against radiant skin and all the surface-level pain of too-much friction evaporates to the feel of Ikuya’s cock pressing hard and hot against his touch.

Hiyori doesn’t think about what he’s doing. He doesn’t know when he last laid claim to a clear thought on his own behalf; surely long minutes ago, before he clutched at Ikuya’s hand and dragged him down like pulling him beneath the surface of the ocean in which Hiyori has been drowning for long years. It was Hiyori who clung to the weight of Ikuya’s body those years ago, who urged them both up to break the surface of the water and gasp for air together; but as Ikuya surfaced Hiyori sank, left behind in the water while Ikuya turned and strode away from him, and Hiyori is tired of being selfless. He can’t follow Ikuya across the sand, can’t keep pace with the spark and flare of the other’s dreams; and if all that is left for him is the endless dark of the water, he’ll drag Ikuya down into it with him rather than watching him go again. So Hiyori lifts his head from Ikuya’s shoulder, and presses his mouth to Ikuya’s lips to steal the rhythm of the other’s breathing, and he swallows down whatever sounds Ikuya might have to offer while his desperate fingers fumble open the front of Ikuya’s pants and shove the fabric aside to gain him a better angle on his hold. Hiyori’s heart is racing, his head is spinning, his whole body feels like he’s burning where he is, caught alight by his own need as it courses through him; but his fingers are closing around Ikuya’s cock, his hand is pulling up in a smooth stroke of motion, and beneath him Ikuya is convulsing into a spasm of sensation that breaks his lips away from Hiyori’s, that leaves his moan of heat to spill out into the night-dark air surrounding them.

“Quiet,” Hiyori says, and he’s bringing his other hand around to press to Ikuya’s mouth, to stifle the sound of the other’s reaction against his palm. There’s no one around them -- they’ve been alone this whole time -- but Hiyori can’t stand the thought of interruption, of a stranger stepping in to pull them apart when he’s finally found his way as near as this. Ikuya doesn’t protest either; his lashes flutter, his lips part under Hiyori’s hold, but his grip at Hiyori’s shirt is still a pull and not a push, and when Hiyori strokes again Ikuya’s hips buck up to meet him, arching to follow the friction of the other’s hand with reflexive grace.

Hiyori’s breathing hard, gasping for air until his inhales are the loudest thing in the park, but he can’t collect himself, can’t fight back the rasp in his throat. Ikuya is hard under his touch, his cock so hot Hiyori imagines he can feel the throb of Ikuya’s pulse echoed in the resistance under his grip, and his lashes are heavy over his eyes, shadowing them into the distraction of pleasure as his lips shift and drag against Hiyori’s palm. His mouth is hot, Hiyori can feel the radiance of it even against the weight of his hand, can feel the damp heat of Ikuya’s tongue just on the other side of his parted lips; he slides his hand to the side, savouring the drag of Ikuya’s lips over his skin now as much as holding back the giveaway sound in the other’s throat. Ikuya turns his head to match, following the action of Hiyori’s hand with all the vague intention of instinct, and Hiyori slides his fingers in and around to catch at the give of Ikuya’s mouth swollen by the force of his own lips against it. Ikuya opens his mouth to the force, parting his lips wider like Hiyori’s fingers are urging him to it, and Hiyori dips in and against the heat of Ikuya’s mouth to press his touch in over the wet of the other’s tongue.

Ikuya closes his mouth against the pressure, fitting his lips to the shape of Hiyori’s finger in his mouth, and when he sucks Hiyori feels the ache of the pressure like it’s his cock urging past Ikuya’s lips instead of his touch. He draws back by an inch, almost experimentally, and when Ikuya sucks against him again he lets his finger slide forward to work in over the other’s tongue as his spine tenses with the wet friction of the action. Ikuya’s tongue shifts, sliding up to drag against Hiyori’s finger, and Hiyori catches at Ikuya’s lip with a second to shove a pair together into the other’s mouth. There’s something heady about the heat of it, the wet of Ikuya’s mouth around his fingers and dragging over his knuckles, but more than that: there’s the thought of Ikuya tasting his skin, of his presence filling Ikuya’s mouth, throat, lingering on the other’s tongue as if the weight of Hiyori’s fingerprints is enough to brand his touch to permanence within this hidden space of Ikuya’s body. Hiyori pushes in farther, sliding both fingers all the way in to press against the give of Ikuya’s tongue and fill the space of his mouth, until Ikuya’s lips are parting against the base of his fingers and Hiyori’s touch is wet and warm. He can feel Ikuya’s breathing struggling around the weight of his fingers, can feel the tremor of heat in the other’s throat coming in time with the pull of his grip against Ikuya’s cock, until his own breathing is coming as quickly, rasping into sync with Ikuya’s until his vision is blurring with the haze of heat breaking over him.

Hiyori slides his fingers back, urges them forward, relishing the give of Ikuya’s mouth around his touch, radiant with the vicious satisfaction that comes with the give of Ikuya’s body capitulating to the reality of his own. But the knot in his stomach is tightening instead of easing, twisting hard on itself until he feels like he’s going to be sick, as if it’s nausea instead of pleasure in him aching at the strain of his cock and tight in his balls. Hiyori rocks his hips forward, instinct grinding him forward in pursuit of more, to chase down heat against the resistance of Ikuya’s body; but it’s not enough, he can’t get his angle right and even the pleasure of Ikuya’s lips parting for his fingers isn’t sufficient, as he lays claim to everything he can reach and finds his want growing instead of easing. He pushes in farther, urging his touch almost to the back of Ikuya’s throat, until the other chokes and groans protest to the pressure, but it’s not enough even then, and then his wrist catches at the line of Ikuya’s undone zipper, and the grind of pain at his skin offers another idea.

Hiyori pulls back, rocking his weight onto his elbow and over his aching knee instead of flat atop Ikuya beneath him. It’s a clumsy action, rough and inelegant, and Ikuya gasps protest as Hiyori’s desperate stroking over his cock flags and falls out-of-rhythm, but Hiyori is pushing hard against Ikuya’s mouth and spreading his fingers apart over Ikuya’s tongue to urge against the wet heat, and the sound is muffled almost out of hearing by his efforts.

“Lick,” Hiyori says. It’s a command, or it would be, in someone else’s voice; in his own it’s almost a plea, begging for some measure of capitulation to what he intends. Ikuya makes a sound in the back of his throat, a question without words; then his eyes widen and his gaze clears to fix on Hiyori over him. They stare at each other for a moment: Ikuya’s eyes wide and bright, gazing into the flushed intent of Hiyori’s face like he’s finally bothering to read the pages of the other’s desire like the book it has always been for him, and Hiyori with his lips parted on the desperation of his breathing, and his glasses knocked off-center at his nose, and his whole body tense with need. Ikuya’s lips soften against Hiyori’s fingers, his head shifts as if he means to turn; Hiyori can feel that one action like a whole history of rejection, like all the years of his past are reaching out to lay claim to him and dissolve him down into the nothingness he has always felt himself to him. His shoulders hunch, his breath catches to a sob; and his fingers tighten, his grip flexing against Ikuya’s cock still in his grip. Ikuya’s lashes melt over his gaze, the tension drains out of his expression and into a shudder of helpless heat; and his mouth eases, too, his lips parting at the same time his tongue comes up to slide heat over Hiyori’s fingers.

Ikuya’s hesitant for a moment, careful like he’s learning the shape of Hiyori’s touch; but Hiyori spreads his fingers, and Ikuya licks harder, coating the other’s skin with the wet heat of his saliva as fast as Hiyori’s heart can speed itself out-of-rhythm. Ikuya’s eyes are shut, his expression slack on pleasure, on expectation, on want, but he doesn’t protest when Hiyori draws his wet fingers back and out of the other’s mouth, doesn’t push away when Hiyori reaches to push his other hand down and in under the weight of Ikuya’s undone clothes. Ikuya’s knees shift open, angling as wide as he can get them with the constraint of the slide on either side of them; his fist drags rough at the front of Hiyori’s shirt, and as Hiyori fumbles into the space between his thighs it’s Ikuya who arches up to meet him, to urge Hiyori’s touch into place via the strain of his body. Hiyori’s fingers drag over soft skin, pressing his touch in against Ikuya, and then spit-slick fingers find the tension of the other’s entrance and Hiyori shifts, and pushes, and forces a finger up into the space of Ikuya’s body beneath his. Ikuya hisses a breath, his cheeks flushing with color Hiyori can see even by the light of the stars, and Hiyori blinks hard and keeps his gaze on Ikuya’s face as he presses in to urge his touch deeper.

Ikuya’s not looking at him. Ikuya has his eyes shut, his lashes hiding the bright of his eyes and the shadows there alike; but his lips are parted, his breathing rasping onto heat unmistakable even without words to give it form. It doesn’t matter anyway: Hiyori’s touching him, Hiyori’s _inside_ him, he can track every shudder through Ikuya’s body in the tension clenching around him, in the heat fluttering silk-soft texture against the drag of his finger. Hiyori’s never touched anything so soft, never felt anything so delicate; as if he could bruise Ikuya just for the glancing contact of his fingerprint, as if he’s forcing the other to his shape with every push of his wrist and every flex of his finger. The thought courses through him like a tidal wave, sweeping aside every other goal, every thought, every clarity in him, until the whole of his attention is in the shift of his touch, the press of his finger, the work of his wrist. Hiyori’s breathing harder, straining over every inhale as if he can’t recall how to breathe, as if his lungs are failing him even now, as the water closes over their heads together; but his touch is inside Ikuya, his fingers are pressing his presence into the very shape of Ikuya’s body, and that thought is enough to keep him gasping for air even as he sinks deeper with every motion. His hand is still around Ikuya’s cock, his grip sliding over arrhythmic motion as his scattered thoughts allow for it; but Ikuya’s eyes are shut, and his lips are parted, and when Hiyori pushes up he can see the flicker over the other’s face, can see tension riding against the familiar details of Ikuya’s features. His touch works deeper, finding space for itself from the give of Ikuya around him, and in his chest his heart aches, bleeding over as if to drip through his ribs like water through spread fingers.

Nothing helps. Hiyori moves faster, strokes deeper; after a few frantic minutes he pushes a second finger alongside the first, his skin still slick with wet even if the heat of Ikuya’s mouth has gone to chill against his skin. Ikuya opens for that, too, giving way with no more than a strain at his neck and a hiss of his breath; but Hiyori feels himself bleeding heat, losing himself to shuddering cold even as he buries both fingers together inside Ikuya beneath him, as he lays claim to as much of the other’s warmth as he can find for himself. He’s freezing, shivering even as his cock aches with blinding want against the front of his pants, until it’s hard even to think of the rhythm of his arm, hard to focus on the stroke of his fingers urging Ikuya open around his touch. He wants, wants everything, Ikuya’s body and Ikuya’s heart and Ikuya’s soul, wants the whole of the other’s existence turned on him like the glow of sunlight finally finding skin that has never known anything but the cool of a distant moon turned elsewhere; but Ikuya’s eyes are still shut, Ikuya’s attention is still out of reach, even as Hiyori hisses over his breathing and drives his fingers as far into the other as he can manage.

“Ikuya,” he says, but the name is shattered, it cracks and breaks into a sob in his throat. “Ikuya.” He pushes up, Ikuya’s head tilts to the side as the other hisses a breath; Hiyori’s breath, Hiyori’s doing, Hiyori’s effect, enough to urge to him to more. “Look at me.”

“Fuck,” Ikuya groans, his lashes skimming weight over his eyes. “I _am_.”

“You’re not,” Hiyori wails. “ _Ikuya_.” He drags his fingers free, giving up the heat of connection to reach for Ikuya’s face instead, to brace his fingers to a grip at the other boy’s chin and pull his head up to face him. Ikuya hisses again, the sound something like protest at the force of Hiyori’s fingers at his face, but he does turn, and when his lashes flicker this time there’s the shadow of attention under them, dragging over Hiyori’s face for a moment like he’s recalling the shape of the other’s features, like he’s coming back to the present for a heartbeat’s worth of time.

“Look at me,” Hiyori says again, the words desperate with need, and he lets Ikuya’s cock go to come up onto his knee instead, to free his hand so he can reach and drag at the fly of his pants. Ikuya’s gaze flutters down for a moment to track the motion of Hiyori’s fingers, but when he moves it’s to let his hold at the edge of the slide go and reach for the waistband of his undone pants himself as he draws his legs up into the space between them. His knee catches at Hiyori’s chest, his heel kicks to a bruise at Hiyori’s thigh, but Hiyori doesn’t care; his pants are coming open, and Ikuya is shoving his shoe off and dragging himself free of one leg of his own pants, and Hiyori’s too firmly in the grip of anticipation to back away now. Hiyori lifts his hand to his mouth to spit into his palm for what lubrication saliva can give him, but as fast as he moves Ikuya is stretching for him too, reaching up to fist at his hair and at the back of his shirt to pull him forward and down. Hiyori falls forward, toppling into the angle of Ikuya’s open thighs even as he curls his fingers around himself to smear wet against his cock; it takes him a moment to get his toes dug in against the torn-up sand under his feet, to brace himself against the metal of the slide beneath him. He locks his knee in against the bottom edge of the slide, gives over his hold on Ikuya’s face to clutch at the lip of the sloped edge to hold himself steady, and beneath him Ikuya is arching to meet him, catching one bare leg around Hiyori’s hip while his other folds in towards his chest to be pinned between them. Hiyori ducks forward, mouth open on a sobbing breath even as he crushes his mouth to Ikuya’s, and it’s like that, with Hiyori’s breath rattling in his chest and Ikuya a tangle of clothes and limbs beneath him, that they come together.

The friction is the greatest part of it. There’s wet between them, the slick of Ikuya’s tongue on Hiyori’s fingers and what Hiyori drew up over himself, but it’s not truly enough, Hiyori can feel the drag of heat that would be too much in any other circumstance, that would pull him back to cringe from the friction that strains between the slide of his cock and the grip of Ikuya’s body around him. But it _is_ Ikuya under him, hissing over air in the back of his throat as Hiyori’s cock thrusts up into him, and Hiyori has never been able to lay hands to Ikuya without payment of pain. He drives his bruised knee harder against the edge of the slide, and he grabs to clutch at Ikuya’s hip, and when he moves the motion is desperate, anxious with force even as it’s more pressure pulling between them than actual movement.

Ikuya’s breath breaks in his throat, creaking over a whimper at Hiyori’s lips pressing against his, and Hiyori licks past Ikuya’s lips to taste the shape of that note on Ikuya’s tongue, to feel the hum of it at the back of his throat. Ikuya’s jaw tightens, his teeth catch to dig in against Hiyori’s tongue; but his hand fists in Hiyori’s hair to keep the other from pulling back, and when he clutches at Hiyori’s back his fingernails catch and claw the burn of pain into the other’s skin. Hiyori sobs over a breath, the sound strange and open where his mouth is pressing to Ikuya’s, and he moves again, his body straining for some kind of a rhythm for even the jerky action his can find within the heat of Ikuya’s body. Ikuya moans with the motion of Hiyori’s cock, the pressure at his jaw gives way, and Hiyori draws back to gasp for air an inch from Ikuya’s parted lips, to pour his breath like water to fill Ikuya’s lungs and pull them both down into shared darkness.

“Ikuya,” Hiyori gasps, and his voice is a stranger’s, his tone is one he’s never known from his own lips before. “Look at me.” His hips force forward, his cock drives an inch deeper; beneath him Ikuya convulses, his back arching as his nails tear welts into Hiyori’s back, as his head tilts back on strain. Hiyori sobs a breath, tightens his grip at the edge of the slide to steady himself, and frees his hold on Ikuya’s hip to fumble between them instead, to close his fingers into a too-tight grip on the other’s cock. “ _Ikuya._ ”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Ikuya sobs. “I _am_ , I am.”

“Open your eyes,” Hiyori demands, and he strokes up to punctuate his words, to grant force to the tremor of his voice. Ikuya groans in the back of his throat, and clutches at Hiyori’s neck, and lifts his head from the support of the slide, his neck straining with the effort of the action. His lashes drag up, rising over the shine of his eyes, and Hiyori leans in at once to steal the bright of that focus from the sky overhead, to block out the starlight from Ikuya’s gaze with the line of his shoulders. His hips move, pumping through another rough thrust, and beneath him Ikuya’s mouth comes open on a voiceless exhale, his eyes blowing wide with the drag of Hiyori moving into him.

“Watch me,” Hiyori demands. His hand is moving, his grip pulling over Ikuya’s cock with reckless haste; his own body is trapped to slowness, moving with near-painful delay enforced by the friction of Ikuya’s body and the insufficient lubrication offered by their mouths, but he still feels the heat rising in him like a tide, following the pull of Ikuya’s gaze on him like it’s answering an unshakeable command. “Don’t look away.” He presses his thumb in closer against Ikuya’s cock, drawing up close under the give of the head; Ikuya’s lashes flutter, Ikuya’s body tenses, but his head stays turned up towards Hiyori over him, even as he visibly struggles for focus.

“It’s me,” Hiyori tells him, speaking as his fingers stroke, as his cock thrusts, as the breath in him knots at the highest point in his chest. “No one else, Ikuya. You’re with me right now.” He ducks his head forward, shuts his eyes for a moment as his forehead presses to Ikuya’s shoulder, as his breath stalls on anticipation. “You’re going to come for _me_.”

The fingers in his hair tighten, the fist of the strands drags painfully at his scalp as Ikuya forces his head up and fixes Hiyori with a glare. His lips are trembling, his cheeks are flushed, but there’s a hardness in his eyes, something brittle and dark, and Hiyori can’t look away from it. “Fine,” Ikuya grates out, the words raw in his throat. “Then _watch_ , Hiyori.”

Hiyori’s breath catches, his eyes blow wide; and he blinks, and sets himself, and he watches, fixing the whole of his attention on Ikuya’s face before him even as his cock aches with friction, as his thighs quiver with cramping effort of his awkward motion. Ikuya glares at him for a moment, his forehead creased and mouth tight; and then his lashes dip, his expression flickers, and Hiyori can see the slack surrender of heat in the other’s face for a moment before Ikuya clutches at Hiyori’s hair for stability again. Hiyori tightens his grip, and strokes faster, and Ikuya’s expression gives way, melting into a spasm of sensation for another, longer moment. Hiyori’s arm is aching, he can feel the hurt in his wrist and elbow and spanning out from his shoulder but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t stop, because Ikuya’s face is going softer, and Ikuya’s leg against his chest is starting to shake, and Hiyori can feel the rising tremors of desire building in the other’s body beneath his, can feel Ikuya quake with every forward press of his cock.

Hiyori can’t breathe, he’s gasping and suffocating and sinking; but Ikuya is gazing up at him, his eyes going softer with every breath he takes as his hands in Hiyori’s hair and at Hiyori’s back fall to slack weight instead of desperate force. Ikuya’s lashes weight, his mouth comes open; and Hiyori groans, “ _Ikuya_ ” a wail on his tongue, and Ikuya opens his eyes wide to stare up at Hiyori over him just as Hiyori’s fingers drag rough over the head of the other’s cock. Ikuya’s shoulders flex, his hips arch, his cock twitches; and Hiyori watches orgasm ripple over the other’s face, watches Ikuya’s gaze dissolve out of focus while still fixed with absent intent on Hiyori over him. Hiyori sobs a breath, not sure if it’s relief or agony in him, and the crush of his own release hits him then, swamping his vision, his attention, everything that he is for a moment. His head comes forward, his grip gives way, his whole body collapses down on top of Ikuya beneath him, and he comes like that, spilling heat into Ikuya as if to mark the other with proof of his desire, as if to claim even the give of the other’s body for his own.

Neither of them moves for a long span afterwards. Hiyori knows they should; even the darkness only gives them a minimal claim to privacy, and even with the weight of his body pressing Ikuya back to the slide beneath them their clothes are far too disheveled to pass any but the most cursory of inspections. But his body is trembling, shaking with pain and exhaustion and relief blended close together, and when he breathes the air sticks in his chest to tangle around the damp of emotion. His glasses are pressing against his face, the frames digging in painfully against the side of his head and one of the lenses pinned to his cheek, but when he tries to lift himself his shoulders shake with the effort and he almost falls. Hiyori stays still for a moment, dizzy and aching and worn out; and then Ikuya’s hand in his hair eases, Ikuya’s touch draws up, and when the other’s hand slides down it trails gentle weight in its wake to smooth over the fall of Hiyori’s hair. Hiyori’s breath catches, his lungs tighten on as much pain as if he’s been stabbed, and as Ikuya’s fingers wind down against the back of his neck all he can do is squeeze his eyes shut and rasp over a breath as his lashes go wet with the burn of emotion. Hiyori reaches to clutch at Ikuya’s hair, to wrap the other in the force of his hold, and as Ikuya smoothes against the back of his head Hiyori presses his face against Ikuya’s shoulder and gasps through the quivering weight of sobs that threaten to drown him in the tide of his own emotion.

Hiyori doesn’t know if Ikuya is sinking with him or keeping his head above water, but having Ikuya in his arms is already a better ending than he ever expected to have.


End file.
